


Quiet Times Around Vicksburg

by quicksiluers



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, American Civil War RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: 19th Century, American Civil War, Gen, and grant is tired, sherman just really wants to impress grant, this is just...something silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksiluers/pseuds/quicksiluers
Summary: The siege has been going on for almost twenty days and some nerves are on edge. That's normal for Sherman but seeing Grant like that...is slightly troubling. Luckily for him, Sherman has a way of annoying him to see his way.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Quiet Times Around Vicksburg

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something dumb that I posted on tumblr and was like...what the hell, may as well post it here. 
> 
> These two loved each other a lot of it's actually kinda silly, their letters could be so over the top...LOVE IT. So you get this silly thing.

The Mississippi sun was sweltering. Sherman took off his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead that had been building up throughout his ride. Whoever decided on the dark blue uniforms they had to wear didn’t seem to account for the strong summer sun that they were all suffering through.

They were 20 days into this siege around Vicksburg and he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was exhausting. They had tried to attack the fortifications twice but each time they were repulsed. It cut deeply at him that they couldn’t breakthrough. It irked him even more that there were rumors that McClernard tried to take credit for some kind of breakthrough down on his portion of the ground. He’d string up the politician if he could, but he knew better. 

The man was still a snake as far as Sherman was concerned. 

A group of tents appeared over the small ridge his horse trotted up, soldiers and orderlies walking by him or saluting. Grant’s camp was always busy. One of the perks of being a corps commander was not having to deal with all the extra nonsense. Between the reporters, Washington, and all the other nuisances, he didn’t know how it all didn’t drive the younger general crazy.

Then again, this was Grant he was talking about. An artillery shell could explode next to him and the man wasn’t phased. 

An orderly came up and grabbed the reins of Sherman’s horse, who climbed off and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He worked lighting the cigar as he glanced around. The familiar head of brown hair wasn’t too hard to spot for when he was looking for Rawlins. Where Rawlins was, Grant wasn’t usually far behind. The men were almost attached at the hip. 

Yet he heard nothing from Grant’s tent, didn’t even hear the familiar string of curses that seemed to follow Rawlins as he paced around. He turned around, puffing on his cigar, and spotted a small group standing around a table. And he recognized one of them

Comstock. Perfect.

“Comstock!” Sherman started over to the group, the younger man turning to him. A hint of annoyance flashed on his face which made Sherman smirk. The guy was new but he was all business. It was something he appreciated. 

“General Sherman, what can I help you with?” 

“I was looking for General Grant...or Rawlins, either of them really.”

“They’re just finishing up looking over some of the fortifications over at McPherson’s front, we actually just arrived back there a short while ago,” Comstock shrugged, “I would expect them back any minute.”

“They still working on those mines?”

“Yes sir,” the young man smirked, an eyebrow raised, “General Grant is working on making sure that Captain Hickenlooper doesn’t get himself blown up on the process.”

A cloud of dust and hooves pounding against the dirt road caught his and Comstock’s attention. Sherman chewed on his cigar as he watched a group of cavalry officers slow down and trot into camp. He couldn’t help the smile that crept on his lips as he watched Grant ride up behind them, Rawlins right beside him. And the younger man didn’t seem to be pleased. 

As he walked closer to the pair, he watched Grant graceful unmount his horse with ease. Rawlins, in his excited state, had a bit more trouble, his boots landing on the ground with a bit more force than needed. 

It wasn’t hard hearing their one-sided conversation. “Sir you can’t just…be that close to the line! You’ve been doing i-”

Grant turned his head and fixed Rawlins with a hard stare, “I know where and where not to be on the line, John.”

Rawlins tensed up, his face flushing, but his eye caught Sherman as he approached. He deflated, “Of course sir.”

“Go down to McClernard’s line and see if Wilson has any updates,” Grant ordered, passing the reins to a waiting orderly, “bring him back up here. He doesn’t need to be down there the entire day.”

Rawlins stared at Grant for a long moment, his jaw tense, before he reluctantly nodded, “Yes sir.”

Sherman hung back, fidgeting around with his cigar. Rawlins shot one last look at Grant, then Sherman briefly, before he climbed back on his horse. He knew better than to step in between those two when there was something going on. Being on the other end of John Rawlins’ wrath was a place he didn’t like to be in. 

Grant turned, a startled look in his eyes before he schooled his expression, “Sherman...have you been here long?”

“No, I just arrived before you got here,” Sherman waved his hand, wafting the smoke from his face, “If I knew you had been gone…”

“It’s fine. Let’s get out of this sun.”

Walking together to his tent, Sherman was quick to notice the younger man’s face pinch slightly. There was also a small scratch on his cheek, a little swipe of blood staining it. He brushed off the concern. It wasn’t as if it could kill him. 

“McPherson’s still working on that mine...,” Grant advised, passing through the tent opening and into the shaded area, “I haven’t set a date yet...they’re still working on how far they can dig toward the rebels line.”

“Would it just be in one area?”

“Yes, but I think we’ll have artillery going on along your and McClernard’s fronts at the same time.” The commanding general took off his hat, that pinched expression flashing on his face again. Sherman noted that he placed the hat rather gingerly down on the table. 

He raised an eyebrow at that, pulling the cigar from his mouth. “How was Mac’s line? Anything pestering him down there?”

“No...just sharpshooters, per usual.”

Grant sunk into his chair, lightly cradling his right wrist. It was a subtle motion but having been around him for so long, Sherman was able to pick it up. The Rawlins argument clicked in his head. 

“You didn’t happen to...by chance...get shot at by one of these sharpshooters did you?”

The glare Grant’s blue eyes leveled at him would have thrown off anyone else. Hell, the first time he had gotten it, it had thrown him off. It wasn’t a look that Sherman often saw except for when Grant was reaching his tipping point. And the tipping point was not somewhere he normally wanted to be. 

But he was never one to back down from a challenge, “You’re too valuable to be in that kind of dan-”

“I know what I am General.”

Oh boy. Well. This wasn’t going well. 

“I know you know sir.”

Grant bristled up on his chair, unconsciously rubbing his wrist, “Then there is no need to talk about it.”

A wave of annoyance washed over him. Grant had told him to be careful just over a week ago and now he didn’t want to take the same advice? Sherman took in Grant’s appearance, looking beyond the cradled wrist and scratched face. His hands had white bandages wrapped around them. The circles under his eyes seemed darker as well. Was he taking care of himself? It seemed beyond Sherman that Rawlins, who practically watched every move the general made, would let that happen. 

But then Rawlins’ frustrated face came to his mind. The curt reply, the ease in which he seemed to give up his fight with Grant. Maybe he had been trying to take care of Grant and the man just wasn’t letting him do it. He was stubborn as a mule at times. 

It was something he was sure that Ellen could relate to when it came to dealing with him.

“With all due respect....sir,” Sherman pressed, taking a step forward, “I hate to be so blunt but you look like absolute shit.”

The two generals stared at each other, the silence growing tense. Maybe he overstepped his bounds. Grant was still his superior officer, even though they were close. But dammit he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. They couldn’t have Grant acting like this. He was the rock of this army. And if something were to happen, McClernard would be the highest-ranking out of the three corps commanders and Sherman would rather roll over dead than take orders from that weasel.

A light laugh broke up his spiraling thoughts. Grant’s stern expression was gone, his shoulders slumping back into the chair, “I can’t argue with that…”

Sherman perked up, “I mean you could…”

“Would you like me to?”

The redhead shrugged, “It’s up to you, sir.”

Grant rolled his eyes, “You can be exhausting.”

“But that’s why you love me,” he stated matter of factly, walking over to the table. He grabbed the opposite chair and sat back in it, grinning more with Grant’s second eye roll.

“Don’t push your luck.”

They both laughed, Sherman’s overpowering Grant’s. This was more like it. The younger man seemed more at ease now, flexing his fingers ever so often. That small wall he seemed to always have up was lowered a bit. Sherman took small pride in that. Grant was a hard man to read, even for him. But there were times that he could see through...and see someone who was as stressed and tired as he was.

“Rawlins...he means well. And I appreciate that. But he can be…,” Grant paused, waving his hand absentmindedly. 

“Overbearing? Like a mother hen?”

“Do you say those things behind his back?” the younger general asked with a raised eyebrow. Sherman shrugged again, “I just say what I see.”

Grant chuckled softly, resting his arm on the table. “We were down along the lines...there was more activity than I think he liked. A few shots went off close to us and he just...tackled me to the ground.”

Sherman stared at him for a long moment, processing. “He...tackled you to the ground?”

The commanding general nodded.

He snorted, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter. The image was almost too comical. 

“He meant well, but I don’t need my chief of staff throwing me to the ground and sitting on top of me.”

Sherman snorted again, leaning forward and hiding his face. He wouldn’t mind being on top of Grant. 

Wait. 

No. 

Brush that thought away immediately. 

Calming himself, were his cheeks flushed?, he sat back up and looked over at Grant. The younger man was looking at him expectantly, a hint of a smile on his lips. 

“I assume,” Sherman remarked, tapping his hand on the table near Grant’s arm, “That’s how your arm or wrist started to bother you?”

The general drummed his fingers lightly on the desk, the small pinch back on his face briefly. He would take that as a yes.

“I fell on it awkwardly...scratched my palms a bit,” he moved his hand, the bandages shifting, “Rawlins tried to make up for it, but I didn’t mention my wrist.”

“Why not?”

“He’d have probably thrown me in an ambulance cart and I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

“True,” Sherman nodded, turning in the chair. He held out his hand across the table, “You should probably get it looked at though.”

Grant tilted his head slightly, “By you?”

“Well if you don’t want Rawlins to find out.”

Grant pulled up his coat and shirt sleeve up to his elbow. The bandages around his hand were haphazard at best and Sherman got to work unwrapping them first. The cuts couldn’t be that bad. He placed the bandages to the side and gently tugged Grant’s hand closer to him, looking over the palm and up to the wrist. There were hints of black and blue already forming around the area. 

“Well, you definitely hurt it.”

“Next thing you’ll tell me the sky is blue.”

Sherman huffed, turning his wrist gently over in his hand, “I am older, so I do happen to be wiser.”

Grant hummed, carefully flexing his fingers. That was good at least. Maybe it was just bruising, a possible sprain. 

“I can make you a splint, so you can at least keep it from getting worse,” he reassured, “I don’t think it’s hurt too much, more of a nuisance than anything else.”

Sherman got up, busying himself with looking around the tent for supplies. Bandages, check. Something that looked like a split, sure. He tried to think what else he would need, thought back to when he was younger, and would...accidentally fall out of a tree or do something else dumb to hurt himself. Most times Ellen or John were there, scolding him. The memory made him chuckle.

It took him a moment to realize that Grant had all this stuff at the ready, lying around his tent. Why visit the medical area when all of it is available at your fingertips? He glanced back quickly at the other man, who had his eyes closed and seemed to be sinking down lower in his chair. 

When was the last time he got some proper sleep?

“You’re in luck, for I happen to be a master at this sort of thing,” Sherman proclaimed, sitting back down at the table. Grant blinked, a little groggy at first before his gaze fell back on the other man. 

“Should I be surprised?”

“A bit more grateful perhaps,” he unraveled some of the bandages, working to find one of the right lengths, “I am helping you from feeling the wrath of your chief of staff.”

Grant outstretched his hand again and stayed silent as Sherman wrapped the bandages around his palm and then his wrist. The trick was making it tight enough to keep anything from moving but not making it uncomfortable or bothersome. John had wrapped his ankle once and it lasted all of five seconds before Sherman tore the thing off because it was too tight.

His leg bounced up and down at he worked. The silence was killing him. Grant had a tendency to just sit quietly, sometimes for long periods of time, which Sherman just couldn’t comprehend. How did his mind not race with every outcome that could happen at their next turn? He couldn’t understand it, the sheer idea of being with his own thoughts scared him half to death at times. It’s one of the reasons he never shut up. 

“Was there a reason you came by today?”

Sherman glanced up from the splint, “I’m sorry?”

“You obviously came to my headquarters to talk about something,” Grant stated matter of factly, his eyebrow risen slightly, “Was there a specific thing that you needed to speak with me about?”

His hands paused, slightly stunned from the question. Why had he come to headquarters?

Nothing sprung to mind. Shit. 

“I just wanted to come and check-in with how things were,” he replied nonchalantly, working to keep the splint in place, “I thought it would be better to discuss it in person.”

No reply came from the younger general and Sherman focused back on his work. It wasn’t technically a lie, a bit of a half-truth really. He had been getting updates through courier messages the past week which was fine. But even though their bases weren’t that far away, he hadn’t seen Grant in much of that time. 

It’s not like it bothered him.

That would be ridiculous. 

He pulled the end of the cloth through the knot, finishing off the work. “That should do it. Doesn’t look too bad if I do say so myself.”

Grant flexed his fingers, eyeing up the bandages. “Don’t flatter yourself too much,” he replied dully, working to suppress a smirk, “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Sherman dug into his breast pocket, pulling out two cigars. He offered one to Grant, who happily accepted. The smoked filtered through the air, the calming feeling slowly coming over him. There were few things that matched up to a good southern cigar. Those assholes were good for at least this one thing.

Grant blew out the smoke carefully, fiddling with the cigar. “There was something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Sherman perked up at that, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair, “What about?”

“Joe Johnston is still out by Jackson somewhere...we’ve gotten a few reports that he’s gathering up more soldiers,” he paused, tilting his head toward Sherman, “Halleck is sending the IX corps to help support the siege. I was planning on sending them to guard the Big Black River, so we have a force between ourselves and him. And I was thinking that you,” he tapped his fingers on the table for emphasis, “would take over that core and keep an eye on him.”

Silence hung in the room, the two men staring at each other. Sherman had to fight back the disappointment. He was being sent off again? “When are they expected?”

“Halleck said to expect them in the next week or so...depends on the rails, weather…” Grant trailed off, pulling the cigar from his mouth, “I know you would be able to handle them. They’re from the east, it’s a bit different out here. And I know you can keep Johnston busy if he does try anything.”

He knew he should take the compliments in stride. Grant was putting his faith in him, knew that Sherman could complete the task. But that didn’t stop the dread he felt. He wanted to be here when the city fell, not back at the Big Black River. He wanted to ride in at Grant’s side when they took Vicksburg, to prove those damn newspapers and critics wrong. Here he was, the supposed “insane” man riding in victorious, taking the Gibraltar of the Confederacy. 

It was selfish. But dammit couldn’t he be selfish?

Grant tossed the butt of his cigar onto the ground, crushing it with the heel of his boot. “It wouldn’t be for another week. We’ll have time to go over plans of how to keep him back. Pemberton can’t stay cooped up in that city for much longer...we just have to outlast him.” 

Sherman nodded, working the cigar in his mouth. He would do it, but dammit he wouldn’t be happy about it. Not that he would let Grant know that. 

They sat in silence, the smoke from his cigar coming out faster. He chewed at the end, grinding his teeth to mask the disappointment. 

Rising from his chair, Grant carefully rolled down his blouse sleeve then coat sleeve to cover the splint. Sherman caught a little hint of red on the palm. Maybe he should have taken a closer look at those scratches. 

“Thank you for help with the splint, you didn’t need to,” Grant glanced up at him, shoving his good hand into his pocket, “I know that you can keep Johnston back. I wouldn’t have asked anyone else.”

“Of course,” he tossed his cigar to the side and rose up, hands resting on his hips, “The man didn’t put up much a fight when we took Jackson. I don’t expect we’ll see much more from whatever he’s trying to plan back there.”

“It’s best just to be alert.”

“Are you that worried about him?” Sherman asked, slightly surprised. 

Grant frowned, as if the question bothered him, “I just want to be prepared. We can’t have any surprises. Now when we’re right at their door.”

The scourge of reporters that filtered around camp popped in Sherman’s mind. Not only them but that little spy Charles Dana. They all knew what he was here for, though it was never said out loud. One false move from Grant could send Dana running to the telegram and sending God knows what back to Washington. 

Snakes, all of them really. He’d like to throw them and McClernard into the river. See how they dealt with that.

Grant took his hand from his pocket, gently rubbing his eyes, “Sieges just take time…,” he paused, catching himself mid-yawn. He tried to shake it off, running his hand through his hair, “You have to account for everything.”

The drowsy expression that came over the younger man’s face almost made Sherman laugh. With his hair all messed up, Grant looked pretty cute. 

Stop. 

Not this again.

“Have you accounted for maybe taking a nap?” Sherman asked, pushing his thoughts to the farthest corners of his mind. 

“Now you do sound like Rawlins,” Grant muttered, the frown looking more like a pout. 

“I could start cursing, really bring that energy.”

“Funny,” Grant waved him off and walk to the other side of the tent, looking over some papers left on a different desk, “I have other things to do…being commander of an army doesn’t really allow for naps.”

There was that stubbornness again. It was almost like trying to argue with a wall. And Sherman had tried it a few times, much to his own dismay. 

But what the hell. Grant looked like he was five steps away from falling face-first into the ground. Better to force a nap on him than have all those reporters think he was drunk.

He would make heads roll the moment he saw them trying to scratch that ridiculous story in their dumb little journals. 

Sherman followed him across the room, Grant’s gaze down on a worn-out letter. There was a handful of papers like it down on the desk, strewn around in a somewhat disorganized manner. 

“Why don’t you have Rawlins or Wilson go through these while you try to take a nap?” Sherman asked, taking a few papers in his hand, “I’m sure they can take care of something this small.”

Blue eyes flickered up to him, eyebrows pinched together, “Rawlins and Wilson aren’t currently here. And I can take care of my personal mail.”

Personal mail…shit.

The letters found their way gently back to the desk, Sherman recalculating his strategy. “I’m sure Mrs. Grant would feel better knowing that you were getting enough sleep during the day.”

Now Grant looked annoyed, his focus squarely on Sherman, “Mrs. Grant knows that her husband is a very busy man and can only get so much sleep. And it’s perfectly fine with her.”

“Is it?”

His eye twitched and Sherman held up his hands, knowing when he was defeated, “Fine. Fine, sorry I asked.”

Grant brushed the letters over with his bad hand, stacking them in a somewhat neat pile. He sighed, his fingers tapping the desk lightly. His mouth was pulled down into a frown, his eyes passing between the letters and the canvas of the tent off to the side. 

Sherman hung back, watching him. He’d pushed his luck. Should have known better honestly. But Grant needed to hear it from someone other than Rawlins. Overbearing as the younger man was, he did always have the commanding general’s health in mind. 

“I’ll…find some time to sleep a little more today,” the young general muttered, “There are things I have to do first.”

Score one for being annoyingly persistent. Sherman kept his face schooled, nodding, “Of course.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do than hang around here.”

He knew when he overstayed his welcome. “Just let me know if that splint comes undone…I can make a house call.”

Grant scoffed, shaking his head, “I’m sure.”

Sherman gave a playful salute and turned, grabbing his hat from the other table. There a small pep in his step, though he tried not to show it. Sherman – 2, Rawlins – 0. He’d have to tease the young chief of staff about it later. 

“Sherman.”

He stopped mid-step, turning back to Grant. 

The other man stared at him for a moment, silent as he could usually be. There was a bit of softness in the normally stern blue eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “Thank you.”

Sherman stood up a bit straighter, a bit of pride swelling up in him. He played it cool, nodding to the general and placed the hat on his head. Before he could say anything ridiculous, which he was bound to do, he passed through the flaps of the tent into the sweltering Mississippi air.

He added another victory into his already growing pile. Rawlins wouldn’t know what hit him.   
  



End file.
